The Artist
by Valkerie
Summary: Ivan meets someone in a subway station.


Ivan sat down on the bench. It was late autumn, and the Moscow subway station was frigid and damp. He shivered a little and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck.

He had no idea where he wanted to go. He was restless, bored. He'd decided just to catch the next train, wherever it was going.

Someone sat down beside him, a girl with long, brown hair. She carried something in black-gloved hands.

"Hello," said Ivan. The girl turned to look at him and smiled a little.

"Hello, sir," she said politely. Her brown eyes warmed with her smile.

Still smiling, she drew a pencil from the breast pocket of her chocolate-colored coat. Ivan now saw that she had been carrying a sketchpad. She turned to him once again. "Excuse me, sir," she asked, "but would you mind if I drew you?"

Ivan was surprised. Normally, people were afraid of him, avoided him, even. Even when he wasn't angry, was just minding his own business. To be truthful, it hurt a little. So it was nice, gave him a warm sort of feeling, to have someone interact with him for no other reason than interaction. No bargains, no treaties...

The girl's eyebrows went up a little, and Ivan realized he hadn't answered her. "Oh, no of course not!" he said, smiling. "I don't mind at all."

The girl grinned, and rearranged herself so that she was facing him on the bench, legs crossed in front of her. She began moving her pencil on a creamy page of the sketchpad, looking up often to make sure the drawing matched his face. Ivan wore a small smile, which grew gradually larger and more genuine as the girl drew.

Finally, she was finished. Almost shyly, she handed him the sketchbook. Ivan was impressed- very impressed. He had inferred from the way the girl went about her work that she was good at her craft, but he hadn't expected... _this._ This was... amazing. It looked exactly like him; she'd even captured the sparkle that was unique to his eyes alone.

With a wide grin, he handed the girl back her sketchbook. "You are very, very good, you know," he told her. "I'm being honest with you, you're _good._"

The girl looked down at her hands, blushing furiously. "Th- Thank you very much, sir. It's nothing, really."

"You know," said Ivan, "you remind me of someone I once knew. A good friend of mine. She liked to draw, and she smiled just like you do."

"Really?" she asked. "What was her name?"

Ivan sighed, a long, sad, weary sigh. "Anastasia."

She was silent for a moment. Then she asked tentatively, "You referred to her in the past tense. Is she still... alive?"

"No." Ivan shut his eyes against the pain that swept through him. _And whose fault is that, huh? You know who killed her. Oh, yes, you know. You ordered it done._

Because her death had been his doing, even if he hadn't pulled the trigger.

The girl put her hand lightly on Ivan's arm. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Ivan smiled at her as she withdrew her hand. "Don't be," he replied.

The girl was silent again. After a few minutes, she picked up her pencil and asked him, "May I have your name, sir?"

Ivan hesitated. Then,_ to hell with it._ "Ivan. Ivan Braginski."

The girl's eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly in disbelief. "You're _him_? Russia? I thought you looked familiar... It's a pleasure to meet you in person, sir," she said. She scribbled his name down in the corner of the page.

She still wasn't afraid of him? Was he dreaming? Had he had too much vodka? Was he _dead_?

No. He was not dreaming, or drunk, or dead. He was sitting next to a girl who had drawn his portrait, who had just learned his name, who had not avoided him or shied away from him the whole time they'd been sitting together.

It suddenly struck him how very young she was.

"How old are you, child?" he asked.

She looked down at her sketchbook. "Fourteen," came the muffled reply.

"Why are you in a Moscow station all alone?"

She sighed. "I... My family is poor. I've always loved to draw, and... I wanted to see if I could find a job somewhere." She raised her head, looking up at the station's ceiling. "A few weeks ago, I sent in an application to a publisher of children's books. I asked if they needed an illustrator. And then, a week ago, I got a letter back, saying they would be glad to have me. So, I packed a bag, enrolled in a school in Omsk, and bought a ticket for the train." She smiled. "And soon I'll be on my way." And then she asked a question that Ivan did not expect. "What about you?"

But he smiled and said, "I've been restless. It's... hard. Keeping up with a country, and everyone in it. I've been stressed lately. I've been feeling stretched, worn thin."

The girl nodded. "You have to make sacrifices, when you're looking after someone. And make decisions when you're not sure if they're right or wrong. If you'll do more harm than good."

This was the longest silence yet between them. Ivan struggled with what he was going to say next. "You know," he began quietly, heavily, sadly. "Anastasia. It's my fault she's dead."

The girl looked up at him again, strands of hair falling across her face. Her eyes were large and liquid and sad.

Ivan continued. "She was a sweet, bright girl. A good friend, even; she lived for her country. All she wanted was to make her people happy. The little Duchess, daughter of the tsar."

"I had them killed. I had soldiers wake them in the night. Anya, Olga, Maria, Alexandra, Nikolas, Alexei. Two of their servants, as well."

A deep weight had settled over him, and he wondered, _why am I telling this child? I've never told anyone, and I'm spilling it all to her. ...But I think she understands._

"They woke them, told them to get dressed. They were going to be moved. ...They were already in exile," he added.

"They took them down to the basement. The tsarina, Alexandra, asked for chairs to be brought, so she and Alexei could sit down. He was sick, you see, a disease that made him bleed badly whenever he was hurt. He'd injured himself sledding, and could barely stand.

"I had them shot. My men told them, when they'd locked the door, that they weren't really going to be moved, they were going to be executed. And then my men raised their guns and opened fire."

Ivan seemed to draw in on himself. He put his head in his hands and screwed his eyelids shut. He hadn't been present at the execution, but he could picture it in his mind all the same.

He'd forgotten about the girl. Suddenly there was a warm hand on his knee.

"It was a mistake, Mr. Braginski. A heavy, grievous mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. They're dead. And it may not have been right for them to die. But you did what you thought was best. You only wanted to help your people." She smiled softly, wistfully. "There's no shame in that. We can't always make the right decisions."

She paused for a long moment. Then she said, "She would forgive you."

Ivan drew his palm from his face, and lifted his head. He could feel tears stinging his eyes; they blurred his vision. "Thank you," he managed. "Thank you."

He hadn't even realized: that, _that_ was what he had most wished to hear, next to the sound of Anastasia and her family alive again. He had wanted to know if he was forgiven. Anastasia was dead. And she couldn't come back to answer that burning question. But this, this was enough. This girl, who looked, who smiled, and who trusted him like Anastasia had, had forgiven him. And that was enough.

* * *

A few years after that, as he sat in front of his fireplace, reading the newspaper, Ivan came across a story that caught his eye. It was about a girl from the streets who, at the young age of fourteen, had put her phenomenal artistic talent to use as an illustrator of children's books. Just last month, when the latest book was released, she had earned enough money to purchase something she'd dreamed of for years.

It wasn't a car. It wasn't a piece of pretty jewelery. It wasn't a house or a jewel or an expensive designer dress.

It was a headstone for her brother; an angel with a tiny lamb held safe in her arms. For the little brother who had frozen to death when his eight-year-old sister, unable to carry him and keep him warm as she did odd jobs for small money, had left him in a sheltered place while she worked. She came back one day when it was snowing, to find that he had frozen there without her body heat to keep him warm.

The words of the girl in the subway station came unbidden to Ivan's mind: _We can't always make the right decisions._

She'd made amends for her mistake, as well, as anyone could have done. And Ivan could do the same.

* * *

**A link~**

.org/wiki/Grand_Duchess_Anastasia_Nikolaevna_of_Russia

* * *

**A/N: Hi, peoples! This is my first Hetalia fanfic, so tell me what you think! :D I'll love you if you loved it. I'll love you if you hated it, too, so long as you tell me why. I'd like to improve, aru~**

**Cookies and sunflowers for people who review! **

**Love you guys, **

**Valkerie, otherwise known as:**

**Izzy**

**Izabella**

**Psycho I.Z.**


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